Form and Function
by hifunctioning
Summary: Sherlock is bored, irritated, and frustrated, and decides to take it out on John. By the time he realizes he's in over his head, it's too late. Smut, angst, and also romantic feels. Starts out pretty Dom!Sherlock but ends up somewhere else.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Inspired by the irresistible quote "I am here to be used, Holmes" from_ The Illustrious Client. _

All my fics stand alone, but some are linked. In my head, this takes place a few weeks after my fic "Reassembly Required," which takes places a few weeks after "One Way Out" (in which Sherlock comes back after the Fall). In a fit of anal-retentiveness, I made an index of all my fics so you can see how they all fit chronologically, if you care. It's in my profile.

* * *

Sherlock tried very hard not to get bored. He got no recognition for it, but he did try. So when everything failed, and the rocket was tearing itself to pieces, he felt he wasn't entirely responsible for whatever happened. At that point, it was a choice between damage or more damage. It couldn't be his fault that the world was like this.

Sherlock squinted and threw his knife at the right eye socket of the bison skull on the wall._ Ha! Dead on._

He spun triumphantly to see if John had noticed. John had not noticed. He was reading a dull little paperback mystery, not looking up at all, and had been on the sofa for four weeks.

Sherlock would have liked a little sofa time now and again. A lot of sofa time, actually. That was his spot, he used to always lie on the sofa. It wasn't fair.

Yes, John was injured. Yes, Sherlock had insisted that he come home from hospital early. Yes, Sherlock had dragged him off to Leeds very soon afterwards on a case, and that might or might not have delayed his healing, John said no, but there could be no denying he'd not improved at all since then. And yes, he needed to keep his leg elevated, and yes, his bedroom was intolerably boring (due primarily to not having a Sherlock in it) so yes, of course, it only made sense that John would be here, in the living room, on the sofa, all the bloody time.

But it was so irritating.

And when Sherlock went running out into the night, John couldn't come with, because there he was, being all injured. Still.

And when Sherlock was striding down the street making brilliant deductions left and right, John wasn't there to see it. Still.

And when someone jumped out of an alley and punched Sherlock in the kidney, John wasn't there to shoot them. (Sherlock got out of it fine, of course, just a few bruises, but he would have rather had John shoot them.) Still.

So John was being very difficult on the sofa.

Furthermore, life on the sofa seemed to have prompted some changes in John's personality of which Sherlock did not approve.

1. He made less tea.

2. He did not go out to pick up milk or biscuits or anything else. (He argued that Sherlock, who did not have a hole in his leg, should take up this responsibility. Sherlock countered that John was still perfectly capable of this task, it just took him longer, which was fine since he clearly didn't have anything else to do.)

3. He had adopted Sherlock's schedule, which was to say, none. John had always insisted on sleeping at night and being awake during the day, and grumbled melodramatically whenever Sherlock forced him to do otherwise. Even when they were on the run. But now that he was on the sofa, apparently the tyranny of the clock no longer had any hold on John. He slept when he felt like it and woke when he felt like it. This was only rational, of course, which was why Sherlock did it (only with much less sleeping) but he was sure that John shouldn't. John should be consistent. And John should _not _have been down here, all night, every night, with no regard for other people's space.

The living room between approximately 12:00am and 6:00am had always been, unequivocally, Sherlock's turf. Any time John had inhabited this space during those hours (before all this), it had been at Sherlock's explicit invitation. But for four weeks now, John had been here, in this room, at all times, frequently wide awake. An intruder.

It shouldn't have mattered, of course. There was no reason Sherlock should care whether he was here or not, he was just a person. But it mattered terribly, painfully. That was why he needed to be brought home from hospital as soon as possible. Sherlock had wanted him here. It mattered. And now that he was here, he was inescapable, inert, indifferent. And that mattered. Which brought it back round to…

4. He now paid Sherlock very little attention. Sometimes Sherlock could be in the room for several minutes without John saying anything at all or even looking at him. Sometimes he'd leave for hours and come back and John wouldn't have even noticed. It was as if John had been absorbed into the room, had _become_ the room, and now the comings and goings of sentient beings were beneath him.

Sherlock was a blazing star in a sky over a city where a million artificial lights had made stars all but impossible, and if John was awake he should have been looking at him. What else could possibly be worth looking at?

Apparently, a bloody paperback. A detective story, of all things.

Sherlock threw himself into his armchair with a huff and stared balefully at John.

Finally – _finally – _John turned his head, very slowly, to look at him. "What?" he asked.

_What. What. _Just like that, so innocent. Like he didn't know.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and stared at John even more intently. John didn't blink. He stared back.

_That's good,_ Sherlock thought. _Don't stop._

It was 3:40 in the morning and the living room should have belonged to Sherlock alone. He did all sorts of things at 3:40 in the morning by himself. It was still his territory. John was an interloper, not a conqueror. Sherlock was bored and he'd tried not to be and he'd failed and that meant that now, he got to do whatever he wanted.

Right now, the hold of John's stare was making him want to do something definitely not good. He was past being too bored to care. So far past that point. John's stare was a challenge. Its intensity showed that he knew Sherlock was about to do something, he had no idea what, he was sure it would be horrible, and he could not wait to see. That was delicious.

A shiver ran down Sherlock's spine, landing right where he knew it would, spreading heat, and making him hard. Without breaking his stare, he reached down with his right hand, into his pyjama pants, and started to stroke himself.

John's eyes widened in shock. "Sherlock, what the fuck!?"

Sherlock smirked lazily and said nothing.

John was speechless for a moment and then started to get up, muttering "you sick fucking wanker, even for you this is unbelievable, I am living with a _child_, a fucking mentally disturbed child, I swear to god…" until Sherlock interrupted him with the deep voice he knew John found particularly compelling.

"John. You should stay."

John paused, just for a moment, and that was all the encouragement Sherlock needed. He grabbed himself a little tighter.

"You were so comfortable. Stay. Watch."

John turned to him in disbelief. "_Watch?_ You want me to _watch?_ Are you actually out of your mind this time?" He seemed to be trying very hard to talk to Sherlock's face, but his eyes kept sliding down to his crotch.

"Yes. Out of my mind. Lie back down and watch." Sherlock dipped his head to meet John's eyes and smiled and then – he didn't know quite how he managed it, he'd have to dissect these events later and figure that out, but for now, he was would just revel in his victory – John was lying back down on the sofa, on his left side, watching.

Sherlock let out a little sigh of satisfaction and pulled down the waistband of his pajama pants, freeing his cock. He paused to take in John's reaction. He'd hoped for something a little more dramatic – a sound would have been nice – but he'd settle for the way John's eyes widened again, his pupils dilated, and his lips parted just slightly.

Sherlock slowly wrapped his hand around his cock again, one long finger at a time, and then began to stroke, very softly. John's expression hadn't changed, but his eyes were fixed on this point like he had no choice in the matter. Sherlock started to stroke harder and, although he had no specific plan to do so, make little gasping noises. This got a reaction, sympathetic noises from the sofa. _Good. More of that, then._ Sherlock increased his volume just slightly, which causes John's gaze to flick up to Sherlock's face and meet his eyes. That provoked an unexpected jolt; Sherlock bucked his hips involuntarily and let out an extra gasp he hadn't seen coming at all. John's mouth opened a little wider and his hand reached for his own crotch.

"No." Sherlock's voice was firm. He'd recovered quickly; that was unplanned, but the situation was under control again. "Don't touch yourself. I want all your attention on me."

John looked angry. Getting angrier. This could go downhill very quickly. On the other hand, when John got angry, his eyes got very dark, which was just intensified by how big his pupils were now, and also he set his jaw in that way that always begged the question _how far will he go?_ Sherlock groaned, on purpose this time, and raised his hips, pushing his cock into his hand for a long and luxurious stroke.

John was struggling to hold onto anger, but it faded out of his eyes as Sherlock kept repeating that motion, lifting his hips to push his cock through his fist, and the expression in John's eyes now was very much on the right track.

Sherlock reached down to the bottom of his t-shirt with his left hand and slowly dragged it up his torso. John's eyes seemed reluctant to leave Sherlock's crotch but they did, and followed his hand up to his chest, where he swirled his thumb around a nipple several times – John licked his lips – and then pinched. Sherlock didn't want to shut his eyes for even a second – he wanted to see John seeing, every second of it – but he knew the sacrifice would be worth the pay off, so with that pinch he shut his eyes tight and threw his head back, moaning in ecstasy. It was a little overdone. But it did feel good.

And it worked, because John let out a tiny, desperate groan. Breathing heavily, Sherlock opened his eyes to see John watching him hungrily. His hand was migrating down toward his crotch again, so Sherlock said "No." And John stopped and clenched his fist tight and Sherlock had a flashing desire to press his mouth against that fist and feel those knuckles between his teeth, but it was gone as quickly as it came.

His cock was slick with pre-come now and he was pumping it harder and faster. The only sounds in the room were the labored breathing of both men and the obscene sound of Sherlock's hand on his cock. He was close, very close, and he was torn. The plan had been to take it this far and finish in the bathroom, because he would never want John to see him like that, all undone, no control, even for a moment. But to his surprise, he found himself contemplating other options. When John breathed, "Come on, Sherlock, god…" and he was doing that thing where he didn't actually realize he'd said it out loud, that very nearly to tipped the scales, but instead Sherlock leapt out of the chair and half-ran for the bathroom, where he leaned over the sink and in three strokes he was there with a long shuddering moan.

He knew John could hear him from the sofa. He didn't go back to see how he'd managed.


	2. Chapter 2

There was nothing to talk about, so they didn't.

John continued to become one with the sofa. Sherlock continued to be bored. Molly sent him home with some scraps one day and that kept him occupied for a little while.

But there were no cases. Nothing from the Yard and the private cases had been few and far between. Apparently John didn't even care; he used to try to bring in cases and now he wasn't lifting a finger, just contemplating the world from the vantage point of the sofa.

Sherlock strode into the living room on an unusually warm Monday afternoon and glared at John-on-the-sofa. He leaned back against the wall, crossed his arms, and imagined flipping John onto the floor with one easy swing of his arm, then turning the sofa end over end until it hit the window and went crashing through, landing in splinters all over Baker Street. A smirk teased the corner of his mouth.

Or. Walking over there and straddling John's chest, grabbing his wrists and holding them up over his head. Since he loved lying on this sofa so much, surely he wouldn't mind being pinned there. Like an insect. Sherlock pictured himself holding John's wrists tightly with one hand, the other hand spread across the side of his face, pressing him against the cushion. It hardly mattered what came next, this moment would be the point, the look in John's eyes, the fear and rage and anticipation, and Sherlock blazing at the center of it.

He knew this was not good. But if John wouldn't say no – and he wouldn't – what did it matter? Sherlock was bored, and he wanted to do things.

John was watching telly. He'd moved it so he could easily watch it from his post on the sofa. If Sherlock sat on the coffee table, half a meter from John's face, he blocked the screen completely. So that was where he sat.

"Sherlock. D'you mind?"

Sherlock smiled slowly. "Yes." And he reached inside his pyjama pants.

"Sherlock. Jesus, no. You can't…"

"Why can't I?" Inside his pants, he began stroking his cock lightly.

"What do you _mean_ why can't you? What the… Who _says _that? What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"If you don't want to be here, leave." Sherlock's eyes were riveted to John's face. The tortured look there was irresistible. He wrapped his fingers around himself and began stroking it a little more firmly. "Do you want to see?"

John licked his lips but said nothing.

"Do you?" Sherlock lowered his voice. "I want you to. But you have to tell me."

There was a long silence. Sherlock added a twist to his stroke and moaned. John inhaled sharply and whispered, and it sounded almost involuntary, "yes."

Sherlock smiled and lifted his hips to lower the waistband of his pyjamas. He leaned back a bit so that his cock swayed forward, so close to John's mouth, his hands, his fingers. "No," Sherlock said softly, "no touching." Then he added impulsively, "Hands behind your head." And oh god, John didn't even hesitate, he just did it. Sherlock's cock twitched in approval and he murmured wordlessly. His gaze was fixed on John's face, John doing nothing at all but watching him. He stroked and twisted and pumped faster and then he was getting close. He was about to stand up but it was like John read his mind – John was not supposed to do that – because he said, "Stay. Please." His hands were still behind his head, his eyes were black with desire, his voice was fragile, and he was asking so nicely. Sherlock was not in the habit of giving people what they wanted, not even John, but this sight was so sweet, something cracked and he couldn't say no. After all, John was saying yes.

He was literally saying "yes," now, as Sherlock stroked his dick harder, groaning quietly, and each time he started to tell himself, "get up, you can't just fall apart here, go, hide," he heard a real voice murmuring, "yes, Sherlock, come on, let me see you come," and finally that's what did it, that's what he wanted after all, and he let go and it was less of an explosion than it was a sensation of melting, hot and fast, from his center outwards, his body was suddenly one molten puddle spilling off the coffee table onto the floor. He blinked himself back to reality, clumsily picked himself up, and retreated to the bathroom to clean up without a look back.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock woke up hard. That in itself was unusual. In fact, the amount of sexual arousal he'd been feeling lately was unusual. He blamed John.

John… He lazily stroked himself, thinking of the little game he'd invented. The last time had strayed of course, but only because John himself had upped the ante. Sherlock could work with that. To a point, at least. He could bring the game back round to his advantage.

There was a sound in the kitchen. Maybe it was time for round three.

John was sitting at the table, sipping tea and spreading butter on his toast. Sherlock licked his lips and smiled. John was catching on, it seemed. He showed irritation, trepidation, anticipation, but not surprise as his eyes wandered down to the erection poking out of Sherlock's dressing gown.

"Good morning," Sherlock drawled, starting to stroke himself with just his fingertips.

"It's two in the afternoon."

"Hm. Good afternoon." Sherlock circled his thumb around the tip of his cock and smeared the pre-come up and down the shaft. John inhaled and bit his lip. Sherlock made a ring with his thumb and forefinger and slowly pushed it down to the base of his cock.

"Do you want to touch it?" Sherlock whispered.

John said nothing, but the conflict in his face was exquisite.

"You can't." Sherlock said gently, frowning slightly and shaking his head. He paused, as if thinking it over, then stepped forward so that he was just inches away from John's face. "Do you want to taste instead?"

John's face froze.

"I know you've been thinking about it," Sherlock continued in an even lower voice. "I'll let you, if you say you want it. Do you want my come?"

"No." John's voice was tight, and the look on his face said he couldn't believe what he was saying. "I want to touch you."

"You can't," Sherlock repeated. He started stroking again, so close he could feel John's breath on his cock. His own breath was ragged. He asked again, "Do you want it?"

Finally John lowered his eyes and rasped, "Yes."

"Yes… what?"

"Yes. I want your come." He took a shaking breath. "In my mouth."

"Ah." Sherlock felt an electrical surge down his spine, through his cock. He wished there were some way to transmit that, to electrocute John through his mouth. He'd settle for what he was about to do. "Open," he commanded. And oh god, John did it again, without hesitation, did what he was told, his mouth dropped open, just waiting.

"Don't touch," Sherlock reminded him. And then, because he knew he couldn't wait any longer, he started pumping faster, keeping his cock just inches from John's gaping mouth. John's eyes were burning through him, looking at his face and not his cock, which was not what he'd expected. Sherlock realized he wanted to watch John's eyes when he came, and that was a bit of a problem actually, because it turned out that was not a safe place to look and he needed to focus on John's mouth instead, wide open and waiting just for him, only for him, and he felt that electrical surge again pushing him forward and further and then he was coming with loud choking noises, watching white ropes of semen spurting into John's mouth.

He leaned on the table to catch his breath, and this time John was the one to disappear into the bathroom, slipping out from under Sherlock's body and leaving without a word.


	4. Chapter 4

It was a couple of days later when Sherlock thought seriously about it again. He was in the kitchen, and maybe that's why it came to mind. He thought he'd like to do something similar, but a bit differently. John's eyes had disturbed his concentration, that was the only flaw. Maybe he should be instructed exactly where to look. Maybe he could be blindfolded at the last minute. Sherlock set his elbows on the table, steepled his fingers, and considered a few scenarios.

John was leaning against the counter, having just made tea, and was watching him. Of course he was, why wouldn't he be? But something was different. John was always solid. It was one of the best things about him. But tonight, it was as if his center of gravity had shifted. There was something more.

"You're quite beautiful. You know that."

Sherlock met his eyes, saw a spark of challenge there, and twitched his lips ever so slightly. "I can't know anything so subjective. I do know that many people find me sexually attractive. Including you."

"Hm. And how long have you known that bit?" There was an edge in John's voice Sherlock couldn't quite interpret, couldn't recall having heard before. It wasn't embarrassment or anger, the expected responses. He scanned up and down John's body again (having, of course, done it by rote when he first entered the room) but found no clues.

"Since the day we met. Not that I cared." Sherlock understood physical attraction in an academic sense. That is, he understood the physiology of it and the alarming power that it had over most people in the world. On a personal level, he recognized it as one of many weapons in his personal arsenal, a tool he could use to influence others' behavior, often to great effect. He did not understand it experientially. It wasn't that he was blind to aesthetics. He cared about a very specific type of beauty: the marriage of form and function, the rich luster of spruce on a well-aged violin, the sleek lines of a well-tailored jacket, the perfect proportions of a well-designed chair, the graceful curve of a well-made naginata. People, messy and random, didn't fit.

John smiled graciously. "And what tipped you off?"

"First, you were struck by my eyes. Most people are. On that occasion, you held my gaze 1.5 times longer than required by the situation. To your credit, you didn't back down. Throughout our acquaintance, you have generally maintained eye contact one to four times longer than necessary."

"Do I? Some would say it takes two… But it's true, you have gorgeous eyes, can't deny that. Anything else?"

"Hands." Sherlock stretched them languidly on the table in front of him, then laced them together and disentangled them slowly. "The day we met, you looked at my hand when I took the phone from you, and then made a concerted effort not to look again. Probably thought it would make you seem a bit gay." Sherlock smirked. "Since then, you stare at them often, even when engaged in the most mundane tasks, like focusing my microscope or picking a lock. What else? My arse. I knew when you stared at me walking away from you that day at Bart's –"

"You're wrong there. I didn't start admiring your arse till much later."

"I didn't say _you_ were aware of it, John. I said _I _was aware of it. My neck. You are enamored of my neck. I have seen your mouth actually fall open when I take off my scarf. And speaking of mouths, you are especially fixated on my mouth, aren't you? Sometimes you look at it when I'm talking, and sometimes when I'm not. Either way, there's never actually any reason to look at my mouth, and yet you do, frequently and very intently."

"Hm. Right again, detective. So, with this data, what do you deduce I am thinking about right now?"

Oh, a _game._ John thought he was being clever. Alright then. Sherlock tapped his fingers on the table. "You are thinking about me sucking your cock."

John's face was impassive. "Interesting. And tell me, what would that be like?"

"It will never happen."

John shook his head reassuringly. "Of course not. But you can't blame me for my curiosity. What would it be like if it did?"

"I can tell you what _you_ want it to be like."

"Please. Go on. In fact, I'll give you a little more data if that will help with your deductions." There was that strange edge to his voice again – not exactly threatening, but not exactly comforting either – all at odds with his placid smile. "My cock is not quite as long as yours, but it's thicker. And when I think about you, especially these last few days, I come so hard it hurts."

Sherlock's mouth was suddenly dry. He resisted the urge to swallow or lick his lips but was thankful he already had a cup of tea sitting next to him. He could sip it and appear to be pausing contemplatively although he was doing nothing of the sort because he already knew the answer. He was watching it right now, even as he stared into his tea.

Usually his deductions came to him in rapid-fire logical progressions, just the way he recited them. But sometimes he saw them. He would take in all the clues, the angle of the limbs, the substance under the fingernails, the contusions on the neck and arms, the smells of shampoo and window cleaner and rental car and sweat, the way the chairs faced each other but the lamp was off-center, and he would literally see, just like a movie, the way the couple walked into the room, how the man grabbed the woman just above her right elbow and shoved her down into the chair, and everything that followed. Sherlock had often thought that if he'd been born in another time and place, he would've had no choice but to call these deductions "visions," bestowed upon him by gods or demons. And he was quite sure that in that other time and place, he would not have been called a prophet or a saint. He would have been burned or beaten by a frightened mob. He thought he had some general idea of what that would have felt like.

At the moment, Sherlock was experiencing what some might call a vision. Of a spectacular blow job.

"Shall I skip the kissing?" Sherlock asked in a mocking tone. He would play John's game honestly, but he wouldn't play nice.

"Whatever you like," John replied, shifting against the counter to take the weight off his injured leg.

_He should sit down,_ Sherlock thought. _It's obviously bothering him._ "On my knees," Sherlock said abruptly. "And you'd be sitting. In that chair." He gestured to the empty chair next to him. A barely perceptible glance from John had given him away moments earlier, which explained why he was still standing.

"You'd be naked. You'd want to feel me everywhere, not just on your cock. No clothes in between." He spoke at his normal speed, clipping along rapidly, but his voice was a register lower than usual. He told himself he was doing that on purpose, to drive John mad, but truthfully he couldn't recall having made that decision. "My hands running all over your skin, your shoulders, chest, arms, stomach, sides, exploring everywhere. All your scars. Across your hips, down your legs to your ankles and then back up the inside of your legs. I'd put both hands between your legs and push your legs wide apart. But you like to be teased. So I'd caress you, feather-light, with just the tips of your fingers, along the inside of your thighs, tracing just around your balls and your cock, but not touching them. Not yet. You'd feel my breath on your thighs. It would be hot, and uneven. And then you'd feel it on your balls. And then you'd feel it on your cock. And you wouldn't be able to wait any longer, so you'd shift forward in the chair, pushing yourself up against my mouth. And I'd let you." Sherlock paused for emphasis and to appreciate the affect he was having on John. Every physical manifestation of arousal was present and accounted for. His eyes, in particular, were shining intensely and utterly locked on Sherlock.

"We were talking about my mouth, weren't we? My lips are just as soft as you imagine they are. And I would press them against the base of your cock, and slowly work my way up the shaft, not giving you my tongue yet, just my lips. When I reached the top, I would take the tip into my mouth and swirl my tongue across it, tasting your pre-come. I know what you'd taste like, John. I don't have to touch your body to know all about it. I'd tighten my lips around the tip of your cock, but I wouldn't take it any further. I'd wait. You'd be going crazy before long, you'd be lifting up, trying to get further into my mouth, but I'd be pressing my hands down on your pelvis, keeping you on the chair. Your hands would be on my head, tangled into my hair. You're a gentleman, though, so you wouldn't push me down onto you. You'd wait.

"And when I knew you really could not take it any longer, I would lean down and take all of you into my mouth. All the way down. I'd reach up to the back of my head and take one of your hands and place it on the front of my throat, which you love so much, so that you could feel me sucking you. I'd wrap my other hand around the base of your cock, and then I'd start moving my mouth back up your shaft, swirling my tongue all around it along the way, with my hand following. When I got back to the top, I'd vibrate my tongue against your frenulum, flick it across your slit, and then my hand and my mouth would go back down, with your hand on my throat feeling the way I would open up to make room for you. I'd repeat all that, until you were riding the waves, until you were sure you knew what to expect and you were savoring the anticipation, and then I'd pull off. You'd object, I'm sure. But my hand would move in to take over for my mouth, and my mouth would move down to your balls. I'd work them over with my tongue first, licking from your perineum up to the base of your cock and back, then licking all around them in a random pattern so you wouldn't know what to expect, and then finally I'd take them into my mouth and suck them gently, while my hand on your cock was getting firmer and faster.

"And I know exactly what sounds you'd be making at this point, because I've heard you. I know how you curse when you're getting close, and how you give up on words and whimper when you're really almost there. I'd take you back in my mouth then and suck hard, wrap one hand around the base of your cock and grab your hip with my other, and I'd look up at you, watch you watching me as my head bobbed faster and faster to make you come, and that's what would push you over the edge, even more than the sight of my lips stretched around your cock. It would be my eyes. You're a gentleman though, as I said. So you'd warn me and pull away, and I would bring you off with my hand and let you look into my eyes while you come."

Sherlock leaned back in his chair and sipped his tea. He was dying for water, but he was sure as hell not going to get up and show how hard he'd become in the last minute. "Of course, it will never happen," he said casually. "But how did I do?"

John cleared his throat. He seemed to be struggling with language, Sherlock noted with satisfaction. But when he spoke, his voice was remarkably steady. "Very well. Brilliant, really. You always get one thing wrong though, don't you?"

"Which is…?"

"I'm not a gentleman."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and let a grin spread across his face. "I should've known that."

John grinned back. "Right. Oh, two things, actually. There's one thing you got dead wrong."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "And what was that?"

John's smile faded as he stared Sherlock down. "You want it as much as I do."

Sherlock held John's stare and snorted, but before he could formulate a verbal response, John was gone, his footsteps pounding up the stairs to his bedroom. The sofa was vacant then. But for some reason Sherlock no longer cared.


	5. Chapter 5

Even before he swung open the door to the flat, Sherlock knew that John was on the sofa, exactly where he'd left him 12 hours ago. As Sherlock stepped inside, John opened his eyes, blinked with surprise and concern, and said, "Christ. Rough night?"

Sherlock's upper lip twitched. "Yes," he snarled, and spun on his heel to stalk off to the kitchen.

_Rough night, yes._ The Yard had thrown him a bone at last, a dull little murder that had kept him occupied for a day and a half. Sherlock had solved it this afternoon. The final clue had fallen into place at the headmaster's office, which meant that without John, there was no one – except the suspect himself – to explain it to, so Sherlock had to keep his deductions to himself until he got back to the Yard and told Dimmock, who listened in amazement, took notes, told him he was brilliant, and asked him to explain it all again. That should have been enough. But Sherlock was left with a vague discomfort drifting around under his skin, and he knew why, it was because he wanted John's wide eyes fixed on him, his head shaking in disbelief, and his lips parting to breathe, "Fantastic." Dimmock was a poor substitute.

And then that dull little murder got interesting, because this evening, the murderer's associates had gone after Sherlock. He'd handled it, of course. Two men attacked him in an alley and he was doing fine; in fact, he was enjoying himself. (Since Sherlock hated training as a rule, he saw the backstreets of London as his dojo and depended on its criminal elements to provide him with all the practice he needed. Sensei Fukuda would have been deeply disappointed in him.) But he quickly realized something was wrong; the two men weren't just attacking him, they were herding him. He was being directed into a dead end, and he recognized it almost too late. On his way out of their gauntlet, he suffered a nasty blow to the solar plexus and twisted his wrist, but it could have been much worse. And then it was obvious, he realized, furious with himself. There was the sniper, on the fire escape above. _John would've taken him out with one bullet. John should be here,_ Sherlock thought, as he ran round the back of the building, up through the inside staircase and across the roof, and then leapt down onto the fire escape, his coat fluttering around him like black wings. _John should be here, _he thought as he landed on top of the shocked gunman, the impact as he braced himself sending a spike of pain through his wrist. _John should be here,_ he thought as he flipped the man off the fire escape and heard his body thud on the pavement below.

In the cab home, he finally managed to break that loop. _What bollocks, John's not here because he's still injured and can't help, _he reminded himself. _There is no "should" about it._ And after all, it was Sherlock's own fault, his own stupidity for stumbling into the trap, and even so he'd survived just fine without John. But it was too close. And he was still angry. He knew his face didn't betray it, but his heart was still pounding through his chest.

Sherlock stood at the kitchen counter, filled a tall glass of water, drank it all down at once, filled it again. Behind him, he heard John limping to the freezer. Sherlock finished his second glass of water, turned around, and took the bag of frozen peas John was offering. He sighed and held it against his cheek. These cheekbones… another feature that John, and almost everyone else, was mad about, but Sherlock would've traded them in for a regular set in a heartbeat. Cheekbones that stuck out like that attracted fists as well as attention, and it was only a matter of time before one got fractured, and Sherlock could only hope an eyeball wouldn't be harmed in the process. Damaging his vision, that was one of his only real fears, and he tried not to think about it.

"Anything else I should know about? Injuries?"

Sherlock shook his head. The adrenaline was finally starting to recede, his stomach hurt like hell, his lungs hadn't fully recovered, and he knew he needed to ice his wrist. But there was no need to show John any of that. No reason to make John shake his head and say, "I should've been there," which didn't make sense and wasn't true. No reason to let John know how much Sherlock had needed him. Especially when John couldn't do anything to help now.

"Come on. Let me help you."

Anyone who hadn't grown up in the Holmes household might find that type of thing disconcerting, but Sherlock found it perfectly normal. Until he remembered this was John, and John wasn't supposed to be able to deduce his thoughts and respond as if they were spoken aloud. He seemed to be doing it more and more, however; perhaps a natural side effect of spending so much time together. Sherlock had no idea, he had never spent this much time with anyone, ever before.

"There's nothing you can do," he replied.

John was silent, but he had that look on his face that said, _I'm humoring you, but you don't know what the hell you're talking about right now._ John was one of only two people in the world who knew when Sherlock was out of his depth. Of course Mycroft should know those things, but why should John? What gave him the right? And why should he be sitting there with that look of calm concern, as if he expected Sherlock to crawl into his arms like a child? It was uncalled for. It was insulting.

John sat in a kitchen chair and stretched out his legs and for some reason, certainly no good reason, Sherlock was suddenly reminded in a rush of opening his mouth obediently, waiting for Sherlock to come, binding him with his unwavering eyes. Heat was spreading through his body, now, and he was starting to get hard. He blamed the adrenaline which, though on the downswing, was still coursing through his veins and heightening everything. Maybe John could help after all. He knew John could see. Sherlock only knew two ways of being: blazing at the center of the stage, or disappearing into the shadows. If it was too late to hide this, the only thing to do was flaunt it. He reached for his belt.

John's face was unchanged as Sherlock slowly unzipped his trousers and pulled out his cock. He almost looked like he'd been expecting this. And to Sherlock's great irritation, his eyes were fixed, not on Sherlock's crotch, but on his face.

"What do you want?" John asked softly. Sherlock felt a surge of heat through his veins and his dick growing harder, quickly, in his hand. "What do you want me to do?"

Sherlock considered this, as he slowly stroked himself. "Open your mouth," he answered.

John licked his lips and nodded. "I will. But first… I know you don't want me to touch you…"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed in warning.

"But if… I could hold my arms behind me like this…" He reached behind his back and grasped his own wrists. "And open my mouth. Like you want." Sherlock's cock jumped in response. "And I wouldn't _do_ anything. I wouldn't be touching you. You could just…"

"Use you?" Sherlock had intended for his voice to sound a little more imperious, a little less questioning.

"Yeah." John gave a little smile, all lost and out of place in this conversation, and shrugged. "I guess, yeah. Use me. What else am I here for?"

For a moment, neither of them spoke or took a breath. Sherlock's heart, which had a moment ago started to slow down to a normal rate, was now pounding even more violently before. "Show me," he whispered.

Without hesitation, and without unclasping his wrists, John fell from the chair to his knees and opened his mouth. Sherlock's breath caught in his throat at the sight.

He stepped forward, placed both hands on the back of John's head, and pushed his cock into his mouth, all the way down, until he was rubbing up against the back of John's throat and could feel his nose buried in his pubic hair. John was gagging slightly, making little choking noises, as he struggled to adjust. Sherlock was sure this was not good, was in fact very, very wrong, but the spasms of John's throat constricting sent shocks of pleasure through him. He curled his toes, squeezed his eyes shut, dug his fingers into John's hair, and waited until John's throat had relaxed completely. Then he pulled back, slowly, dragging his cock across John's tongue, until it rested just on John's bottom lip. Holding John's head completely still, Sherlock moved only his hips, pushing back into John's mouth slowly, savoring the feeling of hot, wet, open, pliant. John didn't move as he repeated this, didn't so much as twitch, or even gag. The pace was agonizing, and the agony was exquisite, allowing Sherlock to revel in each detail of sensation in turn.

Eventually he was sure enough of his control that he allowed himself to open his eyes and look down. John was staring up at him, of course, his eyes watering from choking and dark with desire. When John thought Sherlock was being amazing, he had a habit of widening his eyes, as if they needed to be bigger in order to take in the enormity of Sherlock. His eyes were that wide now. _But why?_ Sherlock thought. _I'm not being clever now. I'm just a pathetic, randy bloke shoving his prick in his flatmate's mouth. If anyone's doing anything special here, it's him. Why? _

"Close your eyes," he snapped. And John hesitated, fluttered his eyelids reluctantly for just a moment, but closed them. Sherlock sighed in relief, tightened his grip on John's head, and began to thrust his hips faster. John made low grunting noises that sounded involuntary as Sherlock drove his cock in harder, hitting against the back of this throat. There was another sound, and Sherlock realized with surprise that it was himself, moaning through gritted teeth as he pounded harder, slamming his pubis against John's lips with each stroke. He was drowning in the sensation but somewhere in the back of his mind he wondered how much longer John could take this and was surprised at himself; he couldn't remember ever having wondered that about someone before. _John will tell me if it's too much,_ he told himself, but then realized he wasn't completely sure if that was true and that thought sent a bolt of electricity down his spine that came out in an especially violent thrust, making both of them groan in concert.

John was shuddering now, his entire body trembling, his hands still clasped behind his back and his eyes still closed, and Sherlock stared down at him, gaping in amazement. He was thrusting even harder and faster than before, but realized in surprise that he was trembling too, that his orgasm had crept up on him without warning and suddenly he was pulling John's head closer and his own head was falling to his chest as a startled cry tore from him. And John was moving at last, his eyes flying open to lock on Sherlock's face and watch him lose control, there was nothing Sherlock could do to escape it, and his throat working to swallow every drop of his come, all the way through the orgasm and even after Sherlock's hands fell helpless at his sides, until Sherlock felt John had pulled everything out of him.

Sherlock reached out behind him for the kitchen counter but missed and instead fell to the floor, which was fine, a totally reasonable place to be, given that he no longer seemed to have a skeletal structure.

But John was frantically unbuttoning his own trousers. Still on his knees, supporting himself on his right arm, and now furiously pumping his cock with his left hand. Sherlock blinked himself back into focus and watched.

He knew John's body as well as was possible without having touched it. He was sure he knew it far better than many people who had touched it. He saw John as few people did, in his entirety. Every wrinkle, every freckle, every eyelash. Every twitch of his lips and crinkle round his eyes, every time he fidgeted or rolled his shoulder. The nine different colors of his skin, the circumference of his waist, the span of his hand. All data, all worth saving because it was John. But it wasn't arousing. There was nothing remotely erotic about John's appearance. That wasn't it at all. It was the way John looked at him like he was the whole world. The way his voice bent to him whether he was yelling or laughing or questioning or praising him. It was this feeling he couldn't shake, that John was the answer to a mystery he hadn't found yet. John's transport was valuable for just that, the role it played (with distressingly decreasing efficacy) in keeping John near Sherlock, and the data it provided about John himself.

But he had never seen it like this. Neither transport nor data storage nor a collection of stubborn wounds, the body before him was something else entirely, and John was lost in it, and looked like he never wanted to be rescued. Sherlock had never seen anyone like this.

People had never fit into his conception of beauty, the sublime union of form and function. It occurred to him at that moment that possibly John could be like that, something made with such grace and meticulous care for the purpose that he served, that he could not possibly do anything else. Sherlock's eyes traced the plane of John's body from his knees up his thighs and torso to neck and his head, thrown back in ecstasy, and dropped down the arm supporting him, forming a right angle with the floor. John was the Pythagorean theorem, his body was Euclid's proof. Impulsively, Sherlock leaned over and placed his hand on John's sternum, the center of the hypotenuse of his body, and whispered, "Perfect. Beautiful." John's eyes flew open in surprise and he came, spilling all over his hand and shirt and trousers, and making noises Sherlock had never heard before (though he'd heard John's orgasms – with women, with himself – dozens of times). These desperate, wild noises were different and fascinating, and it was then that Sherlock knew he had a problem, because he would need to hear those sounds again.


	6. Chapter 6

John was sitting on the sofa, naturally, his legs propped up on the coffee table in front of him, reading a journal. He stiffened slightly as Sherlock stopped and leaned against the kitchen doorway, indicating he knew he was being watched. But he didn't look up. Sherlock smiled, wondering if John suspected what was coming next. He hoped so. The anticipation was half the point.

He'd been waiting an hour for John to wake from his nap. Even he knew it was beyond not good to do certain things to a sleeping person. That didn't mean he hadn't thought about it, of course, but he knew not to do it. So he'd kept himself busy with experiments in the kitchen until at last he heard John stir, yawn, get up and brush his teeth and drink a glass of water, and settle himself back onto his sofa.

And now finally, Sherlock could get what he wanted. Because he hadn't been able to get those sounds out of his mind for two days. He had never in his life cared about another person's orgasm, but this wasn't the first time John had proved the exception to the rule. Sherlock needed to hear those sounds again and he knew exactly how to do it.

In an instant he had crossed the living room and was standing in front of John, grabbing his hair with one hand and sliding the other hand into his mouth. His fingers pushed down, firmly but gently and spread apart, forcing John's mouth open wide. He was going to make John take all his frustration out on this hand, on those fingers he loved so much, until he was desperate for more. Then he was going to tell John to strip, make him stand naked in front of him so that he could examine and test all his deductions. Then he would tell John to touch himself, and watch him bring himself off, and this time Sherlock wouldn't be in the fog of his own orgasm, he'd be sharp and focused and able to take in every detail and analyze what, exactly, could be so compelling about John Watson's orgasm. And finally, once John had spent himself, Sherlock would tell him to get on his knees and open his mouth and take his come like he had before.

It hadn't occurred to Sherlock that John might not want to cooperate, and that turned out to be a blatant miscalculation. John's teeth came down – not hard enough to seriously hurt, but more than hard enough to get their message across – and his hands shot up to grab both of Sherlock's wrists, thumbs pushing into pressure points that turned his fingers to jelly. Of course John knew Sherlock could free himself with a snap of his elbows – Sherlock had taught John that move after all – but he seemed to be intent on making a point.

"I will do what you want," John said calmly, after removing Sherlock's hand from his mouth. "But first let's talk about what I want."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Sit?" John released Sherlock's wrists, gesturing to the space next to him on the sofa. He sat. He'd go along with this briefly, and then return to his plan.

"Well?" he asked, half condescending and half suspicious. "What is it that you want?"

"I want to touch you."

"Well, you can't," Sherlock snapped without hesitation. "I told you that."

"Yeah, you did. But I have questions."

Sherlock sighed. "No, John. I've never been abused, molested, raped, or forced. That's not it."

John furrowed his brow. "Are you telling the truth? Sherlock, if you never tell me the truth again, do not lie to me about this."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I swear."

John closed his eyes and heaved a great sigh of relief. In spite of himself, Sherlock felt a surge of affection, and hurried to replace it with irritation. "I just don't want you to touch me. Like that. Is that so difficult for you to comprehend?"

"Actually, yeah, it is… Sherlock, how many times have I saved your life?"

"Five and five-eighths."

"Five-eigh—?" Sherlock opened his mouth to explain but John raised a hand to stop him. "No, I don't want to know. Even if you round up, I'd say that' s a conservative estimate."

"It's not an estimate, it's an accurate count."

"_How…?_ Ok, never mind. That's not the point. The point is, the part I'm having trouble with is… how you can put your life in my hands, but not your body."

Sherlock stared at John silently. Irritation was starting to give way to anger. He knew he should stop this, John was taking them down a road that could not lead anywhere he wanted to go. But John's eyes were insistent, almost pleading.

"After everything…" John continued, speaking slowly and carefully. "If you won't trust me, who will you ever be able to trust?"

Sherlock recoiled. "Why would you think," he snarled, "that I would ever want to trust anyone?"

"Because in spite of your best efforts, you are a human. A very good one at that. And because you've done it. You trusted your brother. Sort of. You trusted Molly Hooper." John's eyes fluttered downward. "I haven't quite been able to work that one out. Why you'd trust Molly and not me."

"That was a limited engagement," Sherlock answered coldly. _He can't seriously be asking me that._ "And you know why."

"Do I? I'm rather slow, you know. You'd better spell it out for me."

Sherlock sighed. "Because," he said as if speaking to a small child, "you can do so much more damage to me than Molly Hooper can."

John nodded thoughtfully. "I suppose I did know that. But you know, I can also do so much more good for you than Molly Hooper can. Maybe to an even greater degree."

Sherlock sighed again and waved his hand dismissively. "Fine, you do good for me, John. You already do. There's nothing else."

It was far past time for Sherlock to bring the evening back on track, but he hesitated. The look in John's eyes was both familiar and puzzling. Sherlock would get injured somehow, John would be furious and yell at him for being a self-destructive idiot without any common sense, then he'd put his hand over his face, and when his hand fell, this was the look that Sherlock was accustomed to seeing. It was the look that came just before John pushed him down onto a chair or into the bathroom and started fixing him up. It said, _you insufferable, impossible git, I will always do this for you._ It meant that in a moment, he would be the sole focus of John's attention and considerable medical skills and everything would be alright. That look had no place in this conversation.

"You've got to at least let me try," John's voice was steady and sure, though he had no right to be. "Or else what am I doing here? Trust me."

Sherlock stood up, his mind shouting, _No. No. Danger. Vulnerability. Weakness. No. _But at the same time another voice was running alongside it whispering, _Wait. Think about it. This is something different. Collect data. Find out what it's like. _A third voice was snapping, _This is ridiculous, banal, maudlin sentimentality and it's taking up an incredible amount of space in the hard drive, hurry up and end it and delete it all. _A fourth voice was whining, _But what if he leaves? He can't leave. This will keep him. _The first voice was roaring back to the front, _No. Insane. Danger. And then what will he want? Where does this go? Where does it end? Too much unknown, unknowable. No. Too much to lose, nothing to gain. No. _A seductive whisper echoed, an undercurrent below all the others, _Yes, insane, yes, danger, yes. Where does this go?_ _What a question.__ Danger… _And a clearer voice cut through all the others, _I want to. I want to. I don't know how. _

Sherlock dropped back into the sofa and stared directly ahead. "I'll try," he whispered.

"Ok," John answered quickly. His face didn't change, but his eyes showed his surprise. He took a deep breath, and another deep breath, and continued. "Ok. Here's what we're going to do. Take it slow. I'm going to do what I want, but slowly, and if you say stop, or no, or wait, I swear I will stop immediately. Right?" John looked up to meet Sherlock's eyes and check the expression on his face, but it wasn't there. Sherlock had removed it completely. "Right." John cocked his head and looked at Sherlock thoughtfully. "You don't kiss, I've noticed."

Sherlock sneered slightly. "No."

"Have you ever?"

"Of course."

"But didn't enjoy it."

"No." The sneer turned into a scowl. "It's so… intimate."

"Yes… That's sort of the point, actually. Did you like any of the people you kissed?"

"Probably not. Can't recall. Deleted them."

"Of course you did."

"I suppose you want to kiss."

"Well, I do like it. That is, I like kissing people I like. And I like you, Sherlock, very much. Far more than is good for my health. But don't worry. I won't try it. That is, not on the mouth. Can I kiss you anywhere else?"

_What does it matter,_ Sherlock thought, _if I have to endure this anyway._ He shrugged dismissively and looked off in the distance.

"Oh Sherlock, please calm down! You're embarrassing me with your passion!" John chuckled. The man was impossible. He simply refused to be insulted. "Seriously, relax. Not any big deal, this. You'll probably know every single thing I'll do to you before I know it."

True, Sherlock thought smugly, and was immediately proven wrong. Because he never would have thought John would go first for his wrist. He'd never seen John admiring his wrists and he wasn't aware that anyone had ever been particularly attracted to them or that wrists were eroticized generally. It wasn't even an erogenous zone. Was it? New data was filtering in, because John's lips, delicately brushing across his wrist, were sending messages to the rest of his body that he was having some difficulty decoding. He felt his own pulse speeding up, fluttering to the surface to meet John's mouth, which was now open and covering his wrist with soft, wet kisses. Sherlock remembered in a flash Irene Adler's wrist, a pulse that felt like beating wings trapped beneath her skin, and the hunger in her eyes and wondered, _Is that what I look like now? Am I going to let John undo me the way she let me?_

John was kissing his palm now, almost reverently. _Obviously, John is not me, _Sherlock reminded himself.

Fingers. Sherlock remembered suddenly that he'd had a plan. The plan had begun with fingers and went on from there… He could still come back round to it. He would just let John do a bit more, satisfy his curiosity, and then return to the original agenda. Predictably, John was lavishing attention on Sherlock's fingers, tenderly kissing up and down each one. Sherlock didn't mind. It just wasn't doing anything for him particularly. Until John spread apart his thumb and index finger and carefully, but quite deliberately, bit the skin in between. Sherlock yelped in surprise. He should be angry, he thought. But it wasn't that bad. John would pay for it later; for now, he'd let it slide. He felt John smile smugly against his palm and then his mouth was slowly traveling up Sherlock's arm, back over his wrist where the skin was now alarmingly sensitive, along the inside of his elbow where John paused to exhale, raising goosebumps all along Sherlock's arm, and then he stopped, because he'd run into the edge of a sleeve.

"Can we take this off?" John asked, the very picture of courtesy. Sherlock hesitated, to his own surprise. He walked round the flat naked when he felt like it. He went to Buckingham Palace in a sheet. He was not modest. But this was another layer John was stripping away. _Stupid. Sentimental. Superstitious. It's only a piece of cotton,_ he thought, and sat up to unbutton his shirt.

John sat back and looked at his chest appreciatively. Then he straddled Sherlock's lap, which was a little disconcerting (it felt very near, very intimate) but Sherlock found he couldn't dwell on it, because John was pushing him against the back of the sofa and nuzzling into his neck, kissing and nipping, spending a great deal of time in the hollow of his throat. It was utterly mundane, and yet surprisingly distracting. Each little bite sent a shock down Sherlock's spine and then a soft kiss over the same spot soothed him and made him anticipate the next bite until, before he realized it, he was arching his head back, wordlessly asking for more. John's tongue traced up the side of his neck, along his jawbone, toward his ear, and suddenly the sensation was overpowering, too much, and in a flash he saw how he must look, offering his throat, vulnerable, exposed. He pushed.

John went flying, hitting the side of the coffee table on the way down (books and papers cascading to the floor) and landing, hard, sprawling on his back. Sherlock leapt from the sofa and was kneeling next to him immediately.

"John! Are you alright?" He extended a hand to help John sit up.

John winced and chuckled as he took Sherlock's hand. "Yeah, I think so. Are you?"

Sherlock ignored the question; it was stupid and didn't merit a response. "Your shoulder took most of the impact. Are you sure?"

John winced again as he squeezed his left shoulder with his right hand. "It could be better. But this is just what I've come to expect from life with you. Except that usually I get knocked on my arse by the bad guys."

Sherlock's face clouded. "I overreacted. I… didn't think that through."

_A person should be angry, _Sherlock thought_, if he is physically assaulted in the middle of a sexual overture_. He knew normal people behavior was not his forte, but he was pretty confident about this. And yet, there was John, sitting on the floor with a throbbing shoulder, and his face showed nothing but concern.

"It's fine," John insisted. "Please don't do it again, but it's fine. And I won't do it again either. Just please tell me what… exactly you were overreacting to?"

Sherlock sat up straight and narrowed his eyes. "Too much," he said sharply. "It was too much."

"Ah." John scooted over so that he could lean back against the sofa. Sherlock, who was already there, leaned back next to him. They sat in silence for a couple minutes

"You swear you're telling me the truth? No one has hurt you?"

"Do I have to repeat myself?" Sherlock snapped in irritation. Then he took in the look of pure worry on John's face and said, a little less harshly, "I told you the truth."

"Ok. And you are very clearly experienced. But you don't… typically throw your partners across the room?"

"Only if they ask nicely." Sherlock smirked slightly.

"Can I ask how this is different from the typical case, then?"

Sherlock stared at his knees. "Nothing about this is typical," he replied.

"No." John's voice was soft. "You've got that right." They sat in silence for a while longer. Sherlock's mind drifted in a multitude of directions simultaneously, including the feet in the crisper drawer which would need to be turned over and the three suicides in the obits today, two of which were obviously murders and the third was a definite possibility, and the carpet fibers that John's trousers picked up as he tried to break his fall, and the promise of John standing naked in front of him and making those noises again just for him, but there was John's mouth on his throat again, every corner he turned in his mind, there it was, that feeling that was too much, that he had been so desperate to stop he would hurt John to do it, and now he only wanted more.

Sherlock ground his teeth. This was intolerable. John's hand was on the floor, two centimeters from his own. Sherlock extended his little finger and rested it on top of John's little finger. Sherlock closed his eyes. He took the hand and held it in his own. It was warm and solid, like John. Sherlock traced the lifeline with one long finger, feeling John shiver in response. Then he leaned his head back against the sofa, exposing his throat again.

"Do you want me to touch you again?" John said quietly. Sherlock said nothing. "I'll only do it if you want it." Sherlock squeezed his eyes tighter. "You have to tell me." John's hand was open, pliant, and still in his own hand. He wanted it to move. He wanted to see what else it could do.

"Yes," Sherlock whispered.

John's breathing stopped for a moment. "Ok," he said finally. "And you will tell me if it gets to be too much?"

"Yes."

"Ok. My shoulder can't take another beating tonight, and if you get me in the leg, we may end up in the A and E. So just use your words, yeah?" Sherlock nodded. "Remember," John continued, "I _will_ stop the second you tell me to stop."

He felt John move closer and throw a leg over his lap, straddling him again. John's hands were on his bare shoulders, caressing his arms, tracing the outlines of his biceps, feathering down his underarms, and finally landing on his wrists. There, John's fingers curled around his wrists and pulled them up, pinning them against the sofa. There was a long pause as John waited for Sherlock's reaction. Sherlock also waited for his own reaction, but none came. He was stronger than John, after all, and if he wanted to get out of this hold, it would be no problem. But he found he was relieved to have some small check in place in case he instinctively pushed John again. It was fine. John had never tried to control him. He wasn't going to start now.

Then John's lips were back on his neck, starting slowly, but soon covering exactly the same ground as before and that was good, Sherlock knew what to expect and gradually realized it felt amazing. He let himself stretch his neck more and heard an appreciative murmur from John in response. And then, after every square inch of his throat had been covered at least twice, John's mouth migrated down, across his collarbone and onto his chest. Sherlock briefly considered stopping it here. His nipples were sensitive and this could go badly. But his curiosity won out, and he waited, breathing heavily, as John kissed his way down his sternum, back up, and around his pectoral muscles. His tongue was tracing a circle around Sherlock's areola now, tracing the same path over and over but never touching the nipple, his breath hot and his mouth painfully close. Finally Sherlock cursed under his breath and twisted his chest forward, forcing his nipple into John's mouth. It felt far better than it should. Anyone could have done that, sucking lightly, then blowing across it, then sucking again, grazing it with his teeth, and finally exploring it with his tongue. It wasn't particularly complicated or advanced. Sherlock could not work out why it was causing entire sections of his brain to short out for a split second at a time. He realized he was straining against John's hands but John was only leaning in harder, still pinning him against the sofa. And then he was moving over the other nipple and this time it was much more teeth than lips and tongue and Sherlock was panting helplessly, lifting up his hips to press his erection against John's crotch. John smiled against his chest and scooted back so that Sherlock couldn't make contact. He started to groan in frustration but swallowed the noise down. Surely John knew what he was doing to him, he didn't have to advertise it.

John kissed his way down Sherlock's stomach, paused at his waist, and looked up. "What should we do about these?" he asked, his voice husky with desire.

"Take them off," Sherlock answered, wincing at how broken he sounded.

John let go of his wrists and Sherlock realized with surprise that he missed his hands immediately; he felt unmoored and unsure as he watched John unbutton his trousers. "Let me do it," he said harshly, because he hadn't the faintest idea what else to do with his hands, and John moved to one side to let Sherlock pull down his trousers and pants and fling them aside. He was already barefoot and so there he was, naked on his living room floor. He suppressed the urge to pull his knees up against his chest and forced himself to stay sitting there, back against the sofa, legs spread out before him, and dick rock hard.

That, of course, was where he expected John to go because, well, who wouldn't? John Watson wouldn't, apparently. He was bending over Sherlock's right foot and gently kissing the arch. Shivers of pleasure shot up Sherlock's leg, hitting his cock and brain simultaneously, the shivers turning to waves as John's mouth got more aggressive and just when Sherlock was sure it was too much and was about to tell him to stop, he moved on, kissing his way across the top of the foot, around the ankle, the inside of the calf, the knee, the thigh. And then he was bending over the other foot, but Sherlock whispered, "No, not there," and just like he'd said, John moved on without a word, just looking up to check Sherlock's face and kissing his way up the leg.

There he was then, his rough hands gently but firmly pushing between Sherlock's legs and pressing them apart, and Sherlock let him. Meanwhile his lips were slowly covering every inch of Sherlock's thighs as he gradually made his way up, closer and closer. Too much.

He'd had his cock in John's mouth before, and in a few other mouths before that, and it shouldn't have been anything out of the ordinary. _It's just a hot, wet, receptacle,_ he tried to tell himself, but he knew that was a vicious lie. This was John, John in the driver's seat, and chances were he was going to do something unexpected and possibly incredible, and Sherlock admitted to himself that was terrifying. There had been a plan.

He put his hands on John's head – realizing as he did so that he'd been digging his fingernails into his palms – and firmly pushed him back. "Take off your clothes," he ordered, not sounding nearly as commanding as he'd expected to.

John looked at him curiously and took Sherlock's hands in his own. He looked at the fingernail marks in his palms and said nothing, but pressed his lips against each of them. Then he stood and stripped.

It was odd, that as much as Sherlock knew about John's body, he'd never seen it all before. John knew what he needed, of course. He looked awkward and uncomfortable – and hard – but he stood stock still and let himself be examined. Sherlock drank in every detail, the parts he'd only glimpsed and the parts he'd never seen. "Turn around," Sherlock ordered, and John did. Sherlock relaxed, on firm footing now as he read, interpreted, sorted, and catalogued every clue on John's body. "Ok," he said when he was done.

John raised an eyebrow, questioning.

"Exactly what I already knew," Sherlock observed smugly. He almost launched into a recitation of his deductions, but remembered how disastrous that had been with other men. John was different, but maybe not that different.

"Is that… good, then?" John asked.

Sherlock hesitated. John wouldn't understand. "Perfect," he replied

John smiled with relief. He worried about all the wrong things.

"Can I…?" John asked. Sherlock nodded, and then remembered John wanted him to say it.

"Yes," he said, but his whole body tensed as John started to kneel. John noticed and stopped, tilting his head as he contemplated Sherlock's face.

"Lie down," he said. Sherlock frowned a little but did as he was told. "Good," John continued, dropping to his knees between Sherlock's legs. He took Sherlock's hands into his own, kissed the palms again, and pinned them to the floor next to Sherlock's sides. Then he paused, watching as Sherlock closed his eyes. He wasn't sure what he wanted to show on his face, so he made it neutral. John's hands on his wrists, that was alright. What was coming next, he wasn't so sure.

A full minute passed before Sherlock felt John's breath on his thighs and his lips resuming where they had left off before. He gasped as he felt John's mouth closing around his balls and his tongue rolling across them. He realized he was writhing, pushing his hips into John's mouth and straining against John's hands on his wrists. His cock was painfully hard, leaking pre-come and so far untouched. He knew what John was waiting for and finally he relented, and whispered again, "Yes."

Then John's tongue was snaking around the shaft, slowly, and Sherlock knew he'd made the wrong call. Too much, very definitely too much. In the same moment, he was equally sure that this was not the last time. He would never be able to leave it here. That knowledge made it easier to open his mouth and rasp, "Stop."

John stopped, and so did Sherlock's breath when he looked at him, his eyes black with desire, his face flushed, lips red and swollen, mouth open because he'd just been about to take Sherlock into it, and his own cock hard and leaking as he knelt over Sherlock's legs. John blinked, as if he'd forgotten himself for a moment, and quickly removed his hands from Sherlock's wrists.

Sherlock immediately grabbed John's arms, and pulled him up his own body so that they were lined up. Then he reached down and wrapped his long fingers around both of their cocks. John shuddered and groaned. His eyelids fluttered, but he stayed focused on Sherlock's face.

Sherlock moved his hand up their lengths, rubbed his palm across the tips, and smeared it around and between their cocks. Then he wrapped his hand back around them and started stroking, slowly. This was manageable. This felt good, but familiar. Although it was John, it was just a dick, another man's penis rubbing against his, which was something he understood well. It felt good, that was all. Except it was John's, and John's eyes were pinning him against the floor now the way his hands had been before, and his hands were just motionless on the floor, why weren't they doing anything?

"I thought you wanted to touch me," Sherlock said hoarsely, aware that he'd failed again at a casual tone.

When they were on the run, and John's Browning had to be left behind on a hitman's body, Sherlock had traded in their last valuables for a gun for John, a Sig Sauer P226R. Sherlock could never have predicted the look on John's face as he unwrapped the Sig and turned it over in his hands for the first time. They were both speechless, John looking at the gun and Sherlock looking at John. Then John had looked up and said, "It's beautiful. Thank you." And Sherlock had felt a surge of pride, like a child, that _he_ had been the one to put this thing in John's hands. Almost immediately he had wanted to feel that again.

Now John had that look on his face again, only multiplied exponentially. Wide, disbelieving eyes, and a sublime smile. Sherlock couldn't imagine what he had done to earn this look. But it tore into him, made his chest hurt and his throat clench, and he hated it. And it also made his cock jump, which made John give a little cry, and then Sherlock wrapped his arms around him so that he could flip them over. Now John was on his back and didn't need his arms to hold his weight so his hands were everywhere, across Sherlock's chest and arms and throat and face and hair and hips and arse and legs and back. Not the careful, teasing caresses from before, but wild and rough and thoughtless. Sherlock continued stroking both of them with his left hand and held himself up with his right and felt himself falling under John's hands, with no idea where or if he would land. He was struggling to think through it and failing; the primary conscious thought coming to him now was _more._ John's hands were everywhere and still not enough.

"More," he rasped.

"More what?" John gasped.

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer and realized he couldn't. Then he realized he could. "John… I like you."

"_Oh_," John breathed, his voice breaking. He reached up and pulled Sherlock's head down and covered his mouth with his own. This was nothing like kissing before. This was primal, lips and tongues and teeth, the last vestiges of comprehensible thought being blown away. He was falling, in John's hands and in his mouth, John in his hands and in his mouth, both of them plummeting forever, and it didn't matter if they landed in a splatter of organs and bone fragments or if they never landed at all, and it wasn't clear which one of them came first but the other one followed immediately, and it wasn't clear which one of them was moaning and which one was sobbing because they swallowed each other's sounds, they seemed to be swallowing each other completely, so that Sherlock was surprised, as he opened his eyes and pulled himself out of the fog a minute later, to find they were still whole and separate entities.

He immediately reprimanded himself for the sentimentality of that thought. Oxytocin. Remarkable stuff.

John was staring at him. Without opening his eyes, Sherlock knew John was devouring every detail of the body next to him as if he'd never see it again. Sherlock stretched, basking in the attention like a cat in a pool of sunlight. There was danger lurking round the edges, but for now, he could afford to ignore it.

"Are you ok?" John's voice sounded as thick and foggy as Sherlock felt.

"Fine," he replied automatically. Then he decided it wouldn't hurt to be honest and admitted, awkwardly, "Yeah, better… better than ok. Actually." He opened his eyes and turned his head to face John, and was rewarded with that look again. As if he'd just handed John the most extraordinary gift, when really he'd just done the most ordinary, everyday, human thing.

John sighed peacefully and stretched his fingers so that they just barely rested against Sherlock's arm. Then he closed his eyes. Sherlock extended silent gratitude to him; that was perfect. He couldn't handle being touched right now (that would be bad, very bad), but he couldn't handle being separated just yet either.

He stared at John in fascination, which turned to consternation, and formulated a list of hypotheses.

1. _John loved Sherlock because Sherlock was loveable._ Impossible. Disproven by a lifetime of evidence.

2. _John loved Sherlock because there was something seriously wrong with John._ Impossible. Disproven by plain observation. John had flaws – his intellect was hardly dazzling, his writing was sensationalistic and lazy, he could be shockingly naïve, and it was best not to mention his sartorial taste – but not in anything that mattered.

3. _John loved Sherlock because he didn't really know Sherlock. _Impossible. Disproven by the last couple hours and enough other incidents that Sherlock had stopped counting. John would never understand Sherlock – he simply didn't possess the necessary mental faculties, and probably no one would come closer than Mycroft to that distinction. But John did know him. Knowing someone requires really seeing them, and John had done that with a degree of clarity and determination that no one, including Mycroft, had ever attempted. Of course John knew him better than anyone.

4. _John loved Sherlock because they were a matched set._ This was a fanciful idea, to say the least. At first glance, it seemed to suggest a sentient higher power who would notice and care whether Sherlock Holmes and John Watson became flatmates, or else some type of Platonic belief in a pre-destined soulmate, and Sherlock rejected both premises outright, for the obvious reasons. But if one took a more scientific approach, perhaps some biopsychological theory of symbiosis could explain this phenomenon. Fanciful, yes. Maudlin, romantic, and everything else that was nauseating and sentimental. But just because something was asinine didn't mean it couldn't be true. And once you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

The hypothesis was far from proven, but it merited further study. Sherlock decided to take utmost care in his experimentation. There was only one test subject, after all, perfectly suited to his function, and therefore valuable beyond measure.


End file.
